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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595816">The Election</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindelea/pseuds/Lindelea'>Lindelea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>This and That [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:41:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,721</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindelea/pseuds/Lindelea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>S.R. 1427. "Just wanted to be sure I’m voting for the better hobbit." An elderly hobbit casts his vote for Mayor, shortly after the Travellers return to the Shire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>This and That [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Election</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The traveller reined in the ponies pulling his borrowed waggon at the sight of the rumpled figure sitting forlornly at the edge of the road. ‘Hullo!’ he called. ‘What seems to be the trouble? Are you in need of some aid?’</p><p>When the woebegone face turned up to him, revealing the tear-streaked face of an elderly hobbit, he hastily shoved the reins into his companion’s hands and jumped down from the waggon. ‘Here now,’ he said, kindliness in his tone belying his abrupt action. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and held it out. (His old master had taught him about the importance of keeping a clean handkerchief handy.)</p><p>The old hobbit took it slowly and turned his face away as he wiped at his cheeks and blew his nose with a subdued <em>honk</em>. ‘Thankee,’ he muttered, then folded the handkerchief and sheepishly gestured with it at the traveller. The owner of the handkerchief waved it away – he always carried two or three with him, after all, so he’d have one handy when circumstances demanded. And handy they were! Why, besides wiping away tears, a handkerchief could be used to bind up a young hobbit’s bloody knee, or be twisted and tied to brace a wrenched ankle, or (if large enough) form a makeshift sling for an injured arm. Best of all, a well-sized, clean square of fabric could serve as a container when unexpectedly encountering berries or mushrooms, ripe for the picking.</p><p>With a questioning look, followed by a nod of thanks, the older hobbit stuffed the cloth into a pocket.</p><p>One of the ponies pulling the waggon stomped as the traveller sat himself down in the dust next to the elderly hobbit. The companion holding the reins, looking about as ancient as the fellow in distress, pulled back gently to steady the ponies and spoke soothing nonsense.</p><p>‘Here now,’ the traveller repeated, paying no mind to the ponies, who were in good hands. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’</p><p>Looking into the warm, brown eyes gazing at him with seemingly sincere interest, the old hobbit gulped, wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, and said, ‘Naught.’</p><p>‘Where are you travelling?’ asked the traveller. ‘Can we offer you a lift?’</p><p>‘Same place as you’uns, I wouldn’t wonder,’ the old hobbit said. ‘Off to cast my vote for the Mayor of the Shire.’ He sighed. ‘I live there, and I never shoulda left there. I went off to visit my cousin in Brookfield,’ (naming a small village an hour’s walk to the east of where they now sat), ‘and I chopped a pile of wood f’r him since he’s laid up with the roomy-tiz, that I might earn two silver pennies, so as I might cast ma vote f’r the Mayor o’ the Shire...’ The stream of words sputtered to a stop. </p><p>‘Well, then, you can ride with us! We’re on our way to Michel Delving now. Plenty of room...’ the traveller began, but he stopped as the old hobbit shook his head sorrowfully.</p><p>‘No use for it now,’ the forlorn fellow said. He sighed and turned out his pockets – empty pockets. ‘I had my tu’pennies right here... <em>right here!</em> ...there in that pocket, there... ready to cast my vote.’ He shook his head sadly. His chin drooped, and he said miserably into his chest, ‘but the hole I patched, just t’other day, well, it must’ve opened itself up ag’in, for my two pennies is gone, and another I’d brought, just so’s to enjoy a pint after I done my duty to the Shire.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘<em>Clink in the barrel</em>, as I allus say.’</p><p>The traveller nodded his understanding. He knew something about doing one’s duty to the Shire. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Come ‘long with us, if you’d allow us to do you the favour. We’re heading to Michel Delving anyhow, and I could not bear to leave you here in the dust.’ He squinted up at the Sun, who was beaming merrily down upon them all, hobbits three and ponies and other passers-by who glanced curiously but did not stop, for they were on their way to do their part in the election for the Mayor, and to enjoy the Free Fair that always took place at the same time. And, of course, a cool pint, a hearty meal and plenty of stimulating conversation to follow. The inns and public holes would be about as full with celebrating Shirefolk this day as the pockets of a mischievous hobbit tween who’d found a baking tray of biscuits cooling on a windowsill.</p><p>With a little more persuasion, the old hobbit nodded at last and allowed the traveller to help him up from the dusty grass at the verge. He shook off the helping hand, though, and insisted on climbing up onto the waggon seat himself, where he exchanged a nod with the traveller’s companion, holding the reins. There wasn’t time for a proper introduction; the ponies were both impatient now, seeing the occasional riders and waggons passing them by, as well as hobbits walking on the grass to the side of the road. Their heads were nodding their eagerness, and their feet tapped and stamped.</p><p>The traveller jumped up onto the seat and took the reins with a loud and hearty, ‘Thanks, Dad!’ He had no need to chirrup to the ponies; all it took was a loosening of the reins, and they were off at a brisk trot, merging into the line of waggons and riders, all bound for Michel Delving.</p><p>As if to pay for his free ride homewards, the passenger regaled his benefactors with stories of Will Whitfoot's finest hours as Mayor, and how he himself saw it as his duty to vote for Tom Broadbank, that strong and solid hobbit, who’d make a good Mayor, now that old Will had retired, mostly because he’d never stirred foot outside of Michel Delving.</p><p>‘...unlike some other folk I might name, them as travelled to furrin’ parts when they had ought better to’ve stayed here and stood up to them scurrilous ruffians!’</p><p>One of his rescuers had naught to say to this, being quite deaf, and the younger one, the previous owner of the handkerchief residing in the passenger’s pocket, simply nodded, even though he knew quite well that most of the Shirefolk (except, of course, for the Tooks and a few others who had resisted in their own way) had not stood up to the scurrilous ruffians until Captains Merry and Pippin had stirred them up and organised them to do what needed doing, scour the Shire of Men, rather like pulling up weeds from the flowerbeds to stop them from choking the tender plants growing there.</p><p>‘And this Samwise,’ the old fellow went on, ‘what does he do when he comes back? I ask you!’</p><p>The younger traveller shrugged. It seemed he didn’t have much to say about the matter.</p><p>‘I’ll tell you!’ the passenger said. ‘Why, did he settle down upon coming to his senses and returning from far parts? No! But he kept on travelling, all ‘round the Shire, as if he didn’t have the sense to settle anywhere!’</p><p>At this, the younger traveller put in quietly, ‘He was planting trees,’ as if it meant something to him. But as he added nothing more, the silence stretched for a moment or two.</p><p>The passenger snorted. ‘Aye!’ he cried. ‘That’s what they <em>say</em>! But travelling all ‘round, I’d say he was up to no good. Why, if he couldn’t settle down to diggin’ taters, like any decent gardener ought—’ He shook his head and muttered to himself. ‘Call hisself a gard’ner...’</p><p>‘No need,’ the rescuer said loudly – not arguing, but for his deaf old companion’s benefit. ‘My gaffer here, he’s the best tater-grower in these parts!’</p><p>The older hobbit grinned and beamed, slapping the younger rescuer on the arm. ‘Yer not so shabby yourself, lad!’</p><p>The remark passed right over the passenger’s head, as it were, and he didn’t even think about it until later.</p><p>The passenger did most of the talking. The younger traveller was a hobbit of few words, it seemed, though his responses, when solicited, were thoughtful and well-spoken. The older traveller appeared to be deaf as a post.</p><p>They drove on, ponies trotting merrily along, until the waggon reached the outskirts of Michel Delving, where they did not object to being coaxed to slow down to a walk. The obliging rescuer asked where he might drop the passenger, and he seemed to know his way, which he explained by saying simply, ‘I worked for the Deputy Mayor for a time, and ran errands for him when he was in the town. Got to know the streets quite well.’ </p><p>‘Well then,’ the passenger said as they turned onto his street. ‘Now <em>there</em> was a fair fellow! Quite sensible, too. Discharged all them Shirriffs that Lotho Sackville-Baggins set up and got the Post running again,’ (which had all been part of a piece, considering that Lotho had taken quite a few of the Post hobbits and forced them into Shirriffry in the first place), ‘and then quit and returned the chair and all to old Will when the time was right. Showed very good sense, he did, fer all he went off to far places and come back again.’</p><p>The younger rescuer smiled at this and nodded his appreciation of this remark. ‘That he did,’ he said, shifted the reins to one hand and brushed at his eyes with the other, perhaps at a speck of dust that their travels had kicked up, then pulled up on the reins. ‘Here we are.’</p><p>He forestalled the passenger then, as the latter dismounted from the waggon and raised a hand in thanks and farewell. ‘A moment, if you please,’ he said, digging in his pocket.</p><p>He was not after a pocket handkerchief this time, but he came up with a handful of coins. He fished out two silver pennies that gleamed amongst the copper. ‘Here,’ he said, hopping down and extending the coins.</p><p>‘What’s this?’ the passenger said, rearing back.</p><p>‘Every Shire-hobbit that wants to have a say in the election <em>ought</em> to have a say,’ came the reply. ‘That’s what my master taught me.’ He stopped and corrected himself. ‘Both my masters, that is,’ he said. ‘They set great store by such things.’</p><p>‘But I—’ the passenger protested, pushing at the hand held out to him. ‘I didn’t earn—’</p><p>‘But you did,’ the traveller said. ‘You told us so yourself. You chopped a pile o’ wood, you said. It seems a shame that you should lose your voice in the vote o’er a hole in your pocket.’ He put the two silver coins into the old hobbit’s hand and closed the fingers over them.</p><p>‘But I—’ the passenger repeated. ‘What d’you expect me to do with this!’</p><p>‘Vote for the better hobbit,’ the traveller said. ‘O’ course! That’s what I aim to do, anyhow.’ He smiled. ‘And the coins won’t go to waste, any road. They’ll pay for the Shirriffs who round up stray animals and the Post hobbits who carry messages all round the Shire, as you know.’</p><p>For that was the way of voting for the Mayor in the Shire. At the voting place, casks were set up, one for each candidate, with large cutouts in the top, rather like oversized pygg pots. Voters dropped their two silver pennies into the cask painted with the face of the candidate they favoured. When the pile of silver reached the top, the coins were counted out into coffers and the total marked down, and then the cask would be ready to receive more votes. Those without ready coin brought chickens or a young pig to exchange for silver: these animals would be used for the feast following the All-Shire Race on the final day of the Free Fair, when the election results would be announced. The silver coins, themselves, went towards paying the Shirriffs and Messengers who were under the Mayor’s authority.</p><p>‘But – how do I pay you back for this?’ the passenger said in consternation.</p><p>The traveller shrugged. ‘If you see me in the Inn in the coming days,’ – anyone who knew anything about Michel Delving knew that ‘the Inn’ meant the Inn at Michel Delving at the centre of the town, just a hop, skip and a jump from the Town Hole, proving the traveller’s familiarity with the area – ‘the next time whenever I have business in Michel Delving, you can buy me and my gaffer a pint.’ Seeing the refusal in the proud old face, he said, ‘or if you don’t want to wait that long, simply help out another fellow in need when you get the chance.’ He gave the passenger’s fist a gentle squeeze with his work-worn hand and added, ‘Two silver pennies is a solid day’s work! Don’t you lose these coins now!’</p><p>‘I won’t,’ the passenger said, somehow spurred to agree with the sentiment in spite of himself, even if he had no intention to take the stranger's coins. But as if two coins in the hand were worth half a dozen in a pocket, the traveller withdrew his hand and hopped up into the waggon again before the passenger could change his mind.</p><p>‘Now then,’ the traveller said, tipping his cap to the hobbit he’d rescued. ‘Best to you! You’d better take yourself off to the barrels before they close.’</p><p>‘I will!’ the passenger said, blinking, and then he grinned and saluted the two travellers, young and old. ‘I will! And I’ll hold you to your promise!’ At the younger traveller’s puzzled look, he said, ‘to drink a pint on me, next woodpile I chop for some’un!’</p><p>‘Ah,’ said the traveller, and taking up the reins, he slapped them gently against the ponies’ rumps. ‘I’ll look forward to it!’</p><p>‘And I’ll be sure to vote for the better hobbit!’ the passenger called after the waggon, to be answered by a wave from the driver.</p><p>Not trusting to a pocket this time, he clenched those precious pennies in his fist as he made his way to the voting green, where four small barrels were set up in the shady spot between two trees, a little removed from the bustle of the fair.</p><p>When he reached the line of hobbits snaking around the edge of the Free Fair, he breathed a sigh of relief to open his hand and see the two silver pennies, still there, and safe. The line moved steadily, and he enjoyed conversing with the hobbits before and after him, debating the merits of the four candidates whose casks stood waiting at the head of the line. When he neared the front, he saw with pleasure that the candidates’ likenesses had been painted by a competent hand. Tom Broadbank’s face shone from one of the casks, clearly recognisable. Another face, that of an innkeeper on the outskirts of Michel Delving (‘Good beer,’ hobbits kept saying as they clinked their coins into that particular cask. ‘Says he’s a fair manager, I should think.’), was slightly familiar. </p><p>The old hobbit didn’t know the third face, but the fourth...</p><p>He seemed to hear the hobbit’s voice echoing in his ears. <em>Every Shire-hobbit that wants to have a say in the election <strong>ought</strong> to have a say</em>. No boasting, not even considering all the far travelling he’d done, the places he’d seen, <em>wonders</em>, if you were to believe even half the stories told. But no boasting on his part. Just simple, practical action. He might’ve driven right by a problem when he saw it, as so many others had, as the old hobbit had sat despondently in the dust by the side of the road not all that long ago – but he hadn’t.</p><p>When he reached the head of the line, the old hobbit pointed to the fourth cask. ‘Samwise Gamgee?’ he asked simply. </p><p>The Shirriff monitoring the voting nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. He started to point to the other casks, to name the rest of the candidates, but the old hobbit forestalled him.</p><p>‘Just wanted to be sure I’m voting for the better hobbit,’ he said, and dropped his coins where he was sure they would do the most good. <em>Clink in the barrel.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written as a birthday mathom, in honor of the recent elections. </p><p>This story, set during Sam Gamgee's first election to the office of Mayor, is based on the voting scheme presented in an earlier story, Starfire (not yet hosted at AO3).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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